The Voracious Awakening
by Blue Flaming Wings
Summary: I can never see Clare again. The thought stirred a sensation similar to that of Isley sweeping Raki's feet from beneath him in a duel, right before the blade's point was thrust in his face. I can never see her again, because if I do, I'll kill her.
1. Chapter 1

The Voracious Awakening

Chapter One: The Attendant

For many years now, Raki has lived and dwelt in darkness. The befalling night, out in the wilderness, has allowed the young warrior to be well accustomed to being deprived of his sense of sight. Back when he was still traveling with Clare, her ability to see in the deepest of darkness and to hear a whispered word half a yard away both astounded him and made him uncomfortably aware of his own inherent weakness – his own uselessness. _Not enough_. Raki had always thought then. _Not nearly enough._

Now, he knew himself to be a fool.

All at once, he was struck both blind and deaf – so thick was the blackness of the chamber he was in. So heavy the silence that entrapped him. The air itself was both sterilized and stale, so not a whiff of any scent lingered upon it. If it were not for the sound of his own labored breath, the cold touch of metal around his bare ankles, wrists and waist, the weight of the stone table against his back, and the excruciating, mind-numbing pain that wracked his every pore then Raki doubted that he'd actually believe he was still alive – and not swallowed by oblivion.

_What do you know – those damn rods are good for somethin'._

The thought would've brought a smile to his lips, if his mouth wasn't already sewn into a grim line as Raki struggled not to scream out. The pain wasn't just from the scalding fire that was washing through him, pouring out from the gray rods imbedded into his shoulder, rather with each breath dozens of little pinpricks, like bug bites on a humid day, plagued him. The pain came from the metal bands, for not only did they restrain him, but they also jabbed needles deep into his skin. Sweat leaked out from every inch of his hardened body, which tingled as he felt some of the beads of sweat drip down his left arm, over a old, familiar scar, and onto the layer of cloth that were wrapped around the base of the two pulsating, squirming rods of Yoma flesh. Raki was painfully aware that just underneath that cloth, with its needles and transparent tubes jutting out from it, the rods merged flawlessly – perfectly – into his own body. The foreign flesh already one with his own.

Up above, from the fanged mouth of one rod came incomprehensible babble – the other vomited black bile.

_I wonder if Clare ever felt this disgusted by her own body. If so, it is a shame, for it is a lovely looking thing too. _Despite the pain, that thought did bring out a weak smile to his face, as thoughts on her always did. The sudden sound of sizzling stole Raki's mind away from the one he sought after. Glancing down as best he could, (for he could now see, though if it was because his eyes had adjusted or because he was acquiring abilities similar to Clare's, Raki knew not) he watched as the black liquid from his arm began to melt away the rocky floor, creating small dewdrop-like holes.

Raki's eyes widened as he noticed the puddle of black over his left nipple.

"Help." The warrior gasped. The first sound he had made in hours. Then – louder still, "Help!"

Yet nothing happened. No rushing footsteps, no surprised shouts and the pool just sat there – as harmless as colored water.

_It doesn't hurt me. It destroyed the floor but it can't harm me._ It was then that a thick feeling of despair stormed him. _**Of course** it won't hurt me. A hand wouldn't strike its owner of its own accord, now would it?_ Raki knew full well what it felt like to be miserable. He thought he had been miserable when his parents had been slaughtered before his very eyes and even more so when it turned out that his brother, the one he had sworn to protect and treasure until his dying breath after the tragedy, was the monster who did it. He had been sure that when the village had shunned him and he was wandering out in the desert – starving and alone – that he had reached his lowest point.

Now he knew his folly. He had been wrong. Dead wrong.

_Not enough. Not enough! I have not changed enough! After all this time, I still need saving, I still call out for help, and to **them** no less. _Under the metal bands, both his sweaty palms had tightened into fists. _Laying here bemoaning my fate solves nothing. Accomplishes nothing! Priscilla's out there on another rampage! It'll be my fault again if there are more victims! If I find her, I'll get through to her, I know it! But, damn it, how – _

The pool of black on his chest. The metal bar around his waist.

Understanding dawned and with it self-loathing. _Fool! _Came Isley's echo. _A true warrior makes use of his surroundings!_

Not wasting any more time, Raki thrust up his chest as high as he could to create a incline for the goop to slide down on. The sudden motion made all of his body scream out in violent protest, but by sheer force of will Raki held the position firm as he kept his eyes cemented on the slowly crawling black slime as it made its way to the bottom where awaited the first band and with it freedo –

"Well. We can't have that."

A moment later one of the Organization's attendants was leaning over him and scooping up the liquid in a cloth rag. With a swift flick of his wrist, the attendant flung the rag across the room. However, it disintegrated in a flash of flame while still in mid air, leaving only embers to pelt the floor. With dead eyes, Raki watched them fall. _Damn. Too slow. Fool._

The hidden features revealed nothing of what the man may look underneath the cloth that covered his scalp and the lower half of his face, but his eyes were clearly visible, and they alone seemed to mock Raki. Especially considering his next words, "Please do not attempt this again, it is unwise to try to resist us in your current state. In all likelihood without our aid you would swiftly lose your life – and your humanity." A storm of words, all unsavory, though a few witty, flooded Raki's mind at that. But his strength had left him from the movement he had forced his battered body to take and the call he had screamed out earlier. Never before had he been in such a sad, sorry state, and, of course, it was all his own fault. Isley would be ashamed and Clare – Clare

Raki's eyes snapped open (when had they been closed?) with a glare, "Go to hell." He snared.

But the attendant merely shrugged, the leather-spaulders on his shoulders heaving up and down, and peered at the convoluted rods jutting out of him. "Though this is indeed a fascinating development. It seems we must tightly wrap the openings with cloth regularly, or perhaps build a barrier between your left arm and the rest of your body." then the man pulled out a stick with charcoal markings along its side from one of the many belts around his waist. He held it up against the rods. "Hmm." He said as he lowered the measuring stick. "Projection A has shrunk by one and a half inches, while Projection B has shrunk by a full two inches. It seems you are reaching a equilibrium more quickly than anticipated."

Warily, Raki eyed the man as he traveled along the tangled coil of tubes that spanned the floor. The tubes themselves ended at a line of vats that extended out of a side wall – five in total. On each were metal valves, clogged up by wooden stoppers. To the first of these the attendant went, pulling out a cylindrical vial from a different belt this time. The man crouched down to hold it under the valve. The attendant examined the fluid intensely as it flowed out of the vat and into the vial. The moment it was full, he closed both the valve and the vial, holding the later up close to his eyes. "Good news." He said, turning his head back towards where Raki lay, "Your vitals are stable. You'll live for today, at least."

Raki's anger from before was still fueling him, so, despite his condition, the warrior managed to part his lips and wheeze out, "Why – " A cough, his sore body suddenly jerked up again. Pain. Raki let out a breath and then started over, "Why are you saying this? I need not be informed."

"Orders." The man said simply, as he went to the next vat.

Just then, Raki remembered a time where he and Isley had been sitting together. He, with his blade in his lap, clearly in a meditative trance and young Raki collapsed in a heap, body heaving like a blacksmith's bellows. The Silver Eyed King just opened his eyes and asked him, "Boy. Did you know I once had men who would follow my every word?" Raki looked up at him and Isley peered back down, his inhuman eyes stern and fierce, "How many do you think were there?"

At the time, Raki was more exhausted then he had ever been before. Yet still he said, "I don't know." His eyes were bound to the vaulted ceiling, one with intricate carvings of flying men and courteous beasts in sable garb. The rug felt nice against his back. "Many?"

"Aye." Isley's gaze lowered down to his sword, but otherwise he did not move. "And how do you think I get them to obey me?" Raki was thinking of it, but the older man did not wait for an answer this time. "I remind them, every moment, that I am the one who holds the power – not they, and that I may use that power in whatever way I wish."

Now, Isley's voice resounded in his soul. _I am the one who holds the power – not they_.

The metal braces around his ankles and wrists now seemed uncomfortably similar to manacles.

The attendant now held all five vials, one from each vat, in his grasp and began to carefully slide them into a pouch on one of his belts. Once he was done, he glanced up at Raki, "How are you feeling now? Are you hungry at all? Do you feel any pain?" _What's with the sudden questions?_ Raki couldn't help but think. But, understanding the look in the man's eyes, even if it was shadowed by the cloth above and below, Raki forced himself to give an answer.

"I hurt everywhere, but I'm not hungry."

A odd look suddenly flashed behind the man's eyes, but he said nothing more than, "I see." With that, the man began to walk, away from the vats and away from where Raki lay outstretched on the stone table too, and, with each step, he got closer to the edge of darkness, to the place where Raki could not see. "Since I am part of the retrieval unit, everything I have done up to this point has gone beyond the scope of my duties. A proper researcher aid should be here momentarily to wrap up the projections and to take a sample."

And, just like that, he was gone. There was no sound of a opening door or any retreating footsteps. Just silence and darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

The Voracious Awakening

Chapter Two: The Flameflesh

Save swordsmanship there was one other skill Raki mastered under Isley's tutelage.

At first, when Isley demanded that he learn this skill Raki had scoffed, but in time the boy came to understand and accept its usefulness. The usefulness of absolute control over one's own breathing. The Silver-Eyed King did this primarily through excessive meditation, but Raki realized early on that this did not quite suit him. He simply could not sit still. This is not to say that he actually stood up and paced when he should be meditating, but rather that he fidgeted constantly – always trying to get his back straighter, child held higher, and his legs crossed in the correct manner despite the poise being inherently uncomfortable.

So, instead, he managed the pacing of his breath in other ways. Through running, with each pull up of the knee in tune with a inhale and each step down with a exhale. The same with calisthenics, with push ups, inhale on the way up, exhale on the way down, sit ups, inhale up to the knees, exhale back to the ground and jumping jacks, with inhale as the feet and arms separate and exhale when brought back together. A held breath with the separateness and a release with the reunion.

Now, within the chamber, Raki's regulated his breathing. One long inhale, one equally long exhale. It was always through the nose. Whenever Raki had breathed through his mouth Isley had always been quick to rap him on the head with the back of his hand. "Less time, less sound." Was what the Abysmal One of the North always said.

Over time Raki had made a bit of a game out of it, a game with two specific parts. One was how long of a count can each consequential inhale and exhale be and two how much of a streak can be created and maintained. His old record, one that he had spent hours to achieve and brought about a euphoric sense of triumph and accomplishment, was 9 and 217 respectively.

That day he broke both records – many times over – and all he felt was a dull queasiness.

This time, when his solidarity was broken, he managed to catch a glimpse of the coming. A narrow rectangle of light burst through from the back, where the darkness dwelt. It was so bright and blinding that for a moment Raki had to close his eyes. In the next second, a figure appeared, stepping through the light and when its features became clear Raki's eyes became considerably wide.

What stood before him was a creature the likes he had never seen before, which was indeed saying much, considering his involvement with Yoma and the inhuman warriors of the Organization. It was humanoid, yet possessed a bright vivid orange skin, like that of flames from a midnight bonfire. There was not a speck of hair on it, Raki realized. Not on its head or arms or legs. This coupled with the fact it was bare everywhere save its lower regions due to the cloth wrapped around its waist, gave it a almost babe-like appeal. Yet most striking of all were its eyes, which were of a luminescent red, like that of the sun or a burning campfire. It was this feature, and this feature alone, that remained when the block of light behind it vanished, leaving only the glowing red embers hovering in the air, burrowing into his prone form.

The footsteps filled the silence, though they were soft and light. As if the creature was gliding across the floor instead of moving. Soon enough, its figure reappeared before him, standing by the right side of the stone table. In its folded arms was a bundle of cloth, which, on top of, lay a clay bowl. But what truly caught Raki's attention was the two things on the creature's hips, attached there by a knotted cord around its waist. A slender sword on the left hip and a dagger on the right.

_A armed slave?_

At that thought, Raki's head jerked up. A slave? The man certainly worked for the Organization, but that did not necessarily meant that it was against his will. Yet still, the thought rung true to him, this person, whoever he was, certainly did not belong here, in this land, in this world. What type of control did the Organization have over this slave, that they could so easily give him weapons without fear that he would turn on them?

With a slight of hand, the slave slipped out a single cloth from the bundle and dipped it into the bowl, letting it soak in the water that sloshed within. Putting the bowl and the rest of the cloths down, he wrung the wet rag out once and then twice, before leaning over Raki. Before he realized what was happening, the man squeezed the cloth once more. A moment later droplets of water began to pelt his face. Hurriedly, he opened his mouth. Once the water began to pour down his throat, a searing pain started to grow, focused at his throat. _So, I was thirsty, _came the dim thought as he began to greedily gulp at the air, as if to snatch away every droplet.

It was only after the man bent down again to dip the cloth once more in the water that he realize just how it was the Organization decided to let him drink. _They won't even let a slave touch me directly._ But then the man with red eyes was leaning over him once more, wringing out the cloth, and any thoughts were vanished under the haze which covered his mind, for at that moment, in that time, the only thing he could concern himself with was to drink more and more of what was given to him. When the slave was done, letting the wet rag simply lie in the bowl, Raki could not help but feel the sodden dampness of his face, particularly in the way the water clung to his lips.

Raki was stirred from that sensation when the slave moved, the bright shade of his skin flashing in the darkness. Perhaps _moved_ would not be the correct term. The orange-skinned man more like slithered, each step possessing a almost reptilian grace. He only stopped once he was on Raki's opposite side, where his left arm with the rods awaited.

Very calmly, and painfully slow, the slave pulled out a single cloth from the bundle, and holding it up with one hand, leaned closer to Raki's form. Immediately Raki knew what the man was going to do. Before Raki could even blink the red-eyes' hands were a blur of motion before him as the cloth was wrapped around the mouth of the first projection, before the man jumped back. The task was done so swiftly that the young warrior's body did not get a chance to react, which, of course, was the whole point.

Raki watched him as he peered at the wrapped up rod – waiting for it show any sign of movement. It occurred to the young man then that the slave understood the situation. He _knew_ about the black acid. _Maybe he can speak our language?_ Raki wondered. It was as the orange-skinned, hairless man was reaching down into the pile once more that Raki spoke up, his voice hoarse and rusted, "What's your name?"

The slave dropped the rag.

Immediately he glanced up in fright, as if expecting to be hit or reprimanded. But then after simply seeing Raki there, prostrate, bound, defenseless and altogether incapable of chastising the man collected himself, standing straight after picking up the cloth. He then looked at Raki, with a queer expression on his face, before shaking his head. _So he doesn't know – _the thought didn't have a chance to finish, for it was then that the slave opened his mouth.

And showed Raki the stub where his forked tongue once was.

_Those bastards._

For some reason, though it may have just been a phantom of Raki's troubled mind, the young warrior could not help but feel that the silence that followed the small act to be a melancholy one. That the man before him held a more restrained and somber essence about him then he did mere moments before. It was with sobriety that he wrapped the second cloth around the second rod. Carefully keeping the rag between his fingers and the undulating gray flesh. Not out of necessity, like before, but due to some other indiscernible hesitance.

It was then that Raki knew that this man, his existence, his life, his reality – it was utterly foreign to his. Raki could not, and would not, ever comprehend it.

At first, Raki thought that was the end of it and that the slave would turn around, walk away and be enveloped by the darkness, just like the attendant before him was. But to his surprise, the orange-skinned man leaned down again and once more pulled out a cloth. But instead of soaking it and wringing it above Raki's mouth or wrapping up one of the jutting rods like before, the man simply let it lay flat on his left palm, much like the barmaids held up plates at the taverns he and Clare use to go to. Only, this time, the slave kept the cloth held steady under the taller of the two rods and with his right hand reached down to his right hip to pull up the knife –

Wait. What?

Raki opened his mouth to protest, and was even going to jerk his body up against the metal bonds, but, by then, it was too late. The knife came down at a angle on the rod, clearly only intending to cut off a slim slice. But the rod reacted all the same – violently. The moment the blade touched, hundreds of small holes, like the suckers on a squid's tentacle, burst open and spat out a black mist. The knife's blade instantly dissolved with a hiss. The slave's hand would have gone with it if he hadn't let go and shot his hand back, letting the now useless hilt clatter on the floor.

Raki was moaning in pain now as the two rods began to squirm, like eels under his skin. Before he could gasp out a noise, both cloths that had been so meticulously wound around the foreign flesh now blasted up in a spark of flame, as three long spikes – from both rods – suddenly stabbed out honing down on the slave. Luckily, the man threw himself to the ground just in time. The skin spikes soared by above him, before striking the nearby rock wall. The impact sent a wave that followed along the spikes, into the rods, into his arm and then rampaged through his body forcing another grunt from Raki's clenched jaw. This turned into a scream when the spikes all pulled out of the wall and slammed and molded back into the rods all at once.

There was a small respite, as Raki's sweat – soaked, strained body simply relaxed against the stone table – staring at the ceiling as labored breaths wracked his body. A few feet away, he could hear the slave also gasping for breath where he lay, prone on the ground. It was only then when his mind had cleared somewhat that Raki realized that something was … off. Slowly, as if a part of him knew what to expect, Raki turned his head to the left, and his eyes, hidden beneath sweat-soaked bangs, widened.

The entire left side of the table, left wrist metal band and all, had evaporated.

Dangling off the edge was his left arm, which was now coated in a thick, black slime, which was constantly dripping down, making a hole burn in the ground underneath his fingers.

Raki could have sworn, at that moment, out of the mouth of one of the rods came a giggle.


	3. Chapter 3

The Voracious Awakening

Chapter 3:The Escapee

It took Raki all of a half of a second to react.

With a single, fluid motion Raki swept his black – coated arm across his body, and, as he expected, the rest of the table – metal and stone both – dissolved in a flash, leaving the young warrior lying as bare as the day he was born on a pile of rubble. Panting out ragged breaths, sweat pouring from every pore, damp bangs obscuring his vision, Raki stayed – spread eagle and still.

He had to move, his mind screamed at him. He must get up and act – be it run or fight. Yet his body felt like lead, and when he finally did ease up to his feet it was only with much reluctance and protest. And even then he was unsteady, his mind cloudy, as if he would collapse and faint at any moment.

It was only due to his warrior's instinct that his mind suddenly cleared and his second wind buffeted him.

That, and the blade pointed out at him, of course.

Hunched over and heaving, Raki glared up at the slave man, his intense eyes piercing and peering. _Do you honestly intend to do this?_ Raki's eyes inquired. The Flameflesh's reply was clear. He cemented his feet and gripped the hilt of the sword in his hands. Inwardly, Raki cussed, anger, fear and frustration coursing through him at equal measure.

_Damn! I don't want to fight him! I don't want to fight! _

There had been times in the past, during his journey with Priscilla, that Raki had been hailed as a hero. Such a thing annoyed him to no end, for two reasons. Mainly, Raki could not stand the hypocrisy; to be lauded by the same people who had scorned Clare simply because _he_ was a male and clearly human and _she _was a woman and clearly _not_ ground his patience and tolerance to dust. But, for those rare few who would not have been prejudiced against Clare and were grateful to him all the same something else held him back from accepting their praise.

The simple fact was … he was a killer. No more, no less.

When he had finally been done with Isley's tutelage and had ventured forth back into the world again Raki had sworn to himself that he would only use his new-found skills for one purpose – to slay Yoma alone and to defend others, just like Clare had done. Looking back, Raki had to admit that he had been naive – both to the true nature of his "master" and his "young sister" and to the difficulty of upholding that pledge. He struggled – oh, how he struggled! - but he finally crossed the line of no return when coming across a town being raided by a band of marauders. Seeing the victims in their strife, particularly the women as they were thrown to the ground and stripped, set his blood boiling and his body moving of its own accord.

Not a single bandit survived that day.

But that night, out in the nearby forest, as the townsfolk celebrated Raki cried, screamed and pissed himself to sleep.

Now, staring at the Flameflesh across from him, Rak,i could feel it. The blood, the blood of the slain. It poured over him, through his unsettled locks, down his forehead, around his eyes and nose, before dripping to the floor in small, soft drops. Every inch of his body; his arms, his legs, his chest, his back, everything and all was drenched in blood, and easily – so easily – this man's blood could be added to theirs.

The slave's and Raki's eyes met.

The orange – skinned man's eyes widened.

His legs shivered and his blade drooped – too heavy to hold.

Then, just like that, the slave snapped.

Letting out a primal roar, like that of a scaled beast, a yell filled with rage and fear – so, so much fear – to the point where Raki could practically taste it in the air – the Flameflesh charged his sword held a loft above his head. Raki remained still, not budging a inch, not even when the man was before him, slashing the blade down, throwing his whole weight into it.

The longsword descended.

Raki vanished.

The slave's eyes widened.

Then he fell, the blade clattering on the rocky floor.

Raki stood above the prone body, his hand extended out in a fist, his knuckles still tingling from the impact. Slowly, his gaze fell down on his hand, and, grimly, he smiled. _The right, huh? _Normally, when Rakiu struck out in battle he did so with his left, since his right would be occupied with his own weapon. The smile widened. _Good thing I remembered to switch hands. I can only imagine what – _

And then he was down.

There Raki knelt on his hands and knees, his body wracked with convulsions and dry heaves. He mashed his teeth together as he curled his hands into tight fists, fighting the urge to strike the ground beneath him with a frustrated scream. So, instead, he screamed in the solace of his mind. _Are you kidding me? Are you freaking kidding me! One punch. One damn punch! And now I can't even stand up. What the hell is happening to my body?_

"That's what I want to know."

Raki jerked his head up, and upon seeing the sight before him his eyes widened – before narrowing down to slits. For there, standing over the fallen form of the orange – skinned man was the last person Raki ever wanted to see. His black cloak and hood did little to obscure his face, in fact, it almost seemed like he was trying to emphasis his eye with the diseased skin all around it. Two attendants stood on either side of the imposing figure, but if they were the same ones from before when he was captured – Raki could not tell.

So, all he did was choke out a, "Oh, it's you."

Surprisingly, his captor actually seemed amused by that as he tutted and said, "Now, now. None of that. It's always the same with you hotblooded types." That pique up Raki's interest. What, did these psychopaths make it a habit of kidnapping people? But his musing was short lived, for what the man said next pushed him over the edge, "Why can't you just see that we have your best interests at heart?"

Raki laughed.

Or at least, that's what he wanted to do. He wanted to let out loud, mocking laughter, but found out that he could let out no more than a hoarse, coughing sound. Which, all in all, wasn't all that intimidating. At the very least, Raki managed to get his feelings across with his venom laced words, "You capture me," Punctuation. "Strip me of my possessions." Emphasis. "And strap me to a table to be experimented on without so much of a by – your – leave, and you expect me to _trust_ you?"

Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the man in the cloak did not so much as blink, but rather just let out a long, world – weary sigh, as if putting up with Raki was testing the bounds of his patience. "Would you prefer, good sir," the sarcasm in his tone was stinging, "That we waited for your permission before acting and risked you _dying_ on us? Regardless of what you may think, quite simply, without us you would be dead. And should you follow through with whatever idiotic plan you're cooking up you'll still end up that way. Now. Use whatever little intelligence you possess and come with us without struggle."

Slowly, while the man was speaking, Raki had shifted his position so he was crouched on his feet instead of on his knees and, at the end of his captor's words, he looked up and gave the cloaked man a cocky grin. "Do you normally insult someone when persuading them?" As expected, _that_ got under his skin. He dropped all pretense of civility and practically growled at the young warrior.

"Do not try me, brat."

Raki's grin became wider. "Watch me."

Then he lunged.

In a blur of motion, he swept up the fallen blade and glided forward. It was a good thing indeed that Raki's weapon of choice was a greatsword and that, in his fit condition, he could swing the massive blade in one hand. So, even in his weakness, the thin longsword felt light and airy in his grasp. Eying the three people before him, he could tell that they were thrown off guard, but before he could take advantage of their surprise the men recovered. The two attendants from the recovery team charged forward, feet making soft tapping sounds as they both drew out twin daggers – the blades in both hands glinting in the dim light. The distance closed in on itself. The last thought Raki had before everything became a battle haze was, _I'll be fighting bare assed, over a passed out orange – skinned man, while one of my arm is covered in black goo. Hands down, this will be the __**strangest**__ fight I've ever had. _

Raki reached them first, and his blade sung out – sweetly and mercilessly – to whack the man on the left with the flat of his blade. It would stun him, but not kill him or knock him out, the warrior knew. But before he could come out with another strike, he felt, more than saw, the other stab at him with one of his knives. Instinctively, Raki whirled around to block the strike with his arm – guard on his left wrist, much like he had only days (was it really only days?) ago with the yoma's claws in his old hometown. Only to realize, belatedly, that he didn't have it on.

Instead, he had the black ooze and it was more … effective.

The moment the blade descended it was devoured with a sharp, sizzling sound as it struck Raki's left forearm. But, unlike with the slave from before, the attendant wasn't fast enough to stop his fingers from brushing against Raki's arm. It lasted only a flicker of a moment. As long as a sharp intake of breath, but, during that moment, a odd, twisted, sensation suddenly smothered him – crawling up Raki's spine and back down again to settle in his gut, squirming and turning as it went.

A scream and a second later and a pile of armored leather and cloth garb fluttered to the ground in a billow of putrid smoke.

Another second later and the other attendant hit the floor also – passed out.

Dully, his whole body and mind numb, Raki thought, _Must have been friends, family or lovers. _Prying his eyes away from the unconscious body, Raki looked towards the last one standing, the man who had captured him, only to find him gone. _He ran away, huh? _The thought would have made him laugh – that is, if he still had enough in him to feel.

Mechanically, Raki knelt down before the fainted attendant and began to strip him – her he corrected in his mind after taking off her cloth mask. He did this even though putting on the pile of clothes just a couple of feet away would be less time consuming (and Raki was well aware of how short his time was, he very well doubted the cloaked man was twiddling his thumbs right now) because, to him, those clothes – and what they stood for – what they said about him, and what he could do, with a simple touch – simply did, not, exist.

Carefully cutting off the left sleeve, since it would have been melted off anyway, Raki got dressed, sheathing the two daggers as he did so. Raki then hurried over to the Flameflesh and took off the slave's belt with its two sheaths. Snapping it in place around his waist so that the sheathed knife rested on his right hip and the empty sheath rested on his left, Raki cautiously approached the spot where he left the longsword. Picking it up and awkwardly sheathing the blade with one hand, the warrior made a mental inventory. _Leather armor with concealed blades in easy reach and a longsword and dagger on each hip. All weapons and armor in good condition. The armor would have made a decent disguise if it weren't for my arm. No choice but to fight my way out then. _

Steeling himself for what was to come, Raki calmly approached the far wall where all the others had come and left through. Later, the young man would wonder on how easily he did what he did – as if it was the natural, the normal, the only thing for him to do int that situation. For, truth be told, he already knew, deep down, that he had been utterly and irrevocably altered.

Raki pressed his left hand against the wall.

…...

And then the cavern caved in and he died. The end.

No. No. I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't do that! … Probably.

Anyway, this is incredibly belated, I know, but at the very least I'm still sticking with it, so I hope you all are still enjoying it. Speaking of sticking with things, I've also been catching up on the manga, and I want to ask you all something about the latest chapter.

Spoilers Ahead!

Since Clare ended up actually becoming absorbed into the giant destroyer, which, in my story, Raki is getting increasingly connected to, should I make some indication, in the near future, of Raki sensing Clare being "added" (for a lack of a better word) to the monster? Perhaps having a omnious feeling or a dark chill or something? Or should I still leave any hint of Clare's current fate out of the story?

Spoilers End.

Just a couple last notes, about the "cloaked man" he is, indeed, the man who finds Raki alone in the wreckage of the town after the first spike bombing. Which means he's my first canon character, outside of Raki, that I've introduced to the story. So .. what do you think? Is his characterization, from what little we've seen, spot on enough? Would you like to see more of him or should I put him on a bus? I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

Have a nice day!


	4. Author's Note

Hey everyone.

I'm sorry that the first update in so long is a author's note, but due to recent events in the manga I felt it was important to put this up before I go any further. Rest assured, the story will still go on, one way or another, and when it does I'll take this down. I am also aware that if I had updated this story consistently, like weekly, that I wouldn't be facing this situation, but what's done is done.

SPOILER ALERT

So. There has finally been a chapter where we get some insight into what has befallen Raki. Of course, I knew that my prediction (what this fanfiction was all about) would not match up. But, surprisingly, I was pretty darn close. For instant, while I had Raki strapped to a table, they had Raki chained up. But they had the one eyed man appear and they also had the cloaked servants look after Raki, like in my story. So, technically, I realized I'm in a position where all it'll take is a couple of edits to my previous chapters and this fanfic would still fit within the canon. Split over the issue, I'll leave the question up to you guys:

Should I edit the previous chapters and keep it in canon or just make the fanfic a AU?


End file.
